Murder in the Marketplace

by Lora Roberts

  “We’ll need a new receptionist, too,” she said, glancing at me. “Sarah phoned in her resignation yesterday evening. She didn’t have the flu after all. She’s been in Tahoe, getting married to a guy she met last week and fell violently in love with, and they’re moving to Phoenix.” She hesitated. “Would—guess you wouldn’t be interested in the job.”

  She was right about that. “No, thanks,” I said gently. “I’m not cut out for the office life.”

  Drake shook his head in exasperation. “You could at least think about it. Would it kill you to have a regular job and benefits and a real salary?”

  “It might kill me. In fact, it almost did.” I slid out of the booth. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get home and let my sister-in-law yell at me for a while. She’s almost as good at it as you are, Drake. And if you don’t clean those big old nettles out of your parking strip, I’m calling the city weed abatement people to come out and fine your ass.”

  Bruno laughed. Drake had to try hard not to smile. By the time I got to the door, he was behind me.

  “Hey, Liz.” He reached around to push the door open. “We planting that hedge tomorrow?”

  “Sure. Right.” He walked with me back to where I’d left my bus. Before I climbed into it he threw his arm around me for a brief hug. He traced a finger along the angry red line that bisected my throat. I had refused hospital treatment; it would fade soon enough.

  “When I think of you taking these risks I just get all worked up.” He paused, then pressed a gentle kiss on my lips. He’d never done that before. It was over before I had time to decide if I wanted it to go on. He walked on toward his office.

  I tossed my tote bag onto the passenger seat. Something crackled when I reached into it for my car keys. It was the letter from my mother; I had forgotten about it in all the excitement.

  I held it for a minute, then ripped it open and read it quickly.

  Dear Lizzie,

  I didn’t answer your letter before because I didn’t know what to say to you. I am sorry your marriage did not turn out, but as you know I do not believe in divorce, no matter what the bishop says. You must lie in the bed of your own making. Your Dad and I are getting old now and can’t be traipsing around. Of course if you come to visit we will not turn our own child out of the house. We are not very well fixed so don’t know what we could do for you. Amy is a Dear Child and is just mixed up. Do you think you are the right person to set her straight? Be very careful because you will be called to account for your actions at the Heavenly Tribunal.

  She’d signed it, Best wishes, your Mom.

  The paper was lined, with a border at the top of kittens frolicking with a ball of yarn. Her handwriting was shakier than I remembered. She was seventy-three. My dad was nearly eighty-four. They were old people, no longer the figures of powerful authority whom I’d been compelled to defy.

  I put the letter back in my bag and drove home feeling exhausted. At least the cloud of suspicion and murder was gone. The census was almost finished. I was on speaking—or at least writing—terms with my family, even if I didn’t care for what they wrote. If Renee would only leave, I could get down to my real work. I should have felt pretty good, and I did, really, except for a stupid desire to burst into tears.

  The front door was open when I pulled up. Barker ran out at me, woofing like mad. There was a lot of commotion in the house. I stepped into the living room and slipped in a puddle of water, nearly skidding into the sofa.

  Renee and Amy were sloshing around in the kitchen, with all the towels I owned lying in a heap across the doorway. Renee was on her hands and knees, sponging and wringing water into a bucket. Amy wielded the mop. The water was up to their ankles.

  “What’s happening?” I noticed that the floor, the water, and Amy’s and Renee’s feet were a streaky orange. “Not the water heater?”

  Renee straightened and pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “It’s the last straw,” she raged. “I’m leaving as soon as I can get some dry clothes on. If Amy stays in this shack another minute, she’s crazy.”

  “Sorry, Aunt Liz.” Amy wrung her mop and leaned on it. “Mom was showering and it—the water heater—just, like, broke. I mean, it was like a tidal wave or something. It gushed all over the place. We managed to keep most of it in the kitchen, but I think it’s going to take a while to clean this up.” She looked down at the rust-colored water.

  “Did you turn off the gas?” I sniffed, but couldn’t smell anything.

  “Of course. We’re not morons,” Renee snapped. Through the open door of the back porch, the perpetrator of this chaos stood silent for once, its feet drowned in a pile of rusty metal.

  “There’s another mop in the garage.” I reached in and set my tote bag on the kitchen table. “I’ll get it.”

  “And your ‘friend’ was looking for you.” Renee managed quite a good sneer. “The policeman. Is he going to arrest you?”

  “Not any time soon.”

  Amy looked relieved. “It’s all okay?” She followed me to the garage. “I didn’t tell Mom anything about the—you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Plotting?” Renee scowled when we came back in. “That policeman was really frantic to find you, and now you look like hell. What’s that around your neck? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter.” I rolled up my jeans legs.

  “Good. It’s not pleasant having a jailbird for a sister-in-law.” She stepped over the towels. “You two can clean up this mess. I’m going to pack.” Renee looked at her daughter with a mixture of exasperation and respect. “Amy should come with me, but she insists on staying to do this internship thing. If that’s okay with you,” she added in a rare outbreak of manners. “I told her she shouldn’t impose, but she said you wouldn’t care.”

  “I don’t mind.” Oddly enough, it was the truth.

  “Well, I hope I’m not making a terrible mistake.” Renee eyed my dubiously. “If you get into trouble, what will Amy do?”

  “She’ll manage,” I said, grinning at Amy, who sputtered a protest at her mother’s words. “She’s resourceful. So when does your plane leave?”

  “She leaves in an hour and a half,” Amy said, glancing at the kitchen clock. “After we drop her off, we should go to the grocery store, Aunt Liz. There’s absolutely nothing to eat except peanut butter.”

  There would be green beans at my garden, and beets and carrots and lettuce. Amy could help weed. I smiled graciously at Renee.

  “So glad you could visit,” I murmured. “Please, get right on that packing. Amy and I will finish up here.”

  Chapter 28

  I was sitting on my front porch steps, enjoying a balmy July evening—one of the rare six nights a year that aren’t cold in the Bay Area. Barker ranged back and forth over the yard, digging at a fresh gopher mound, sniffing the base of the redwood where the squirrels always headed toward the canopy. Amy had stopped on her way home from work that afternoon to pick up a half-pint of cream, and I was savoring the luxury of strawberry shortcake with my own berries, sweet enough to need no sugar—although Amy had sprinkled hers liberally. I could hear her in the house behind me; through the screen door came a golden oblong of light and the sound of her humming as she got ready for a date.

  We could shower now without fear. Suzanne had honored Ed’s commitment to pay me double, and the check from SoftWrite had been more than enough to cover the cost of a new water heater. Amy had insisted on paying for the plumber out of her salary. I had felt bad about taking her money, but Claudia had urged me to let her pay. “It seems like a fortune to her now,” she’d pointed out. “Real life is learning that it doesn’t go that far.”

  Amy was pulling her weight, anyway, which was good, because I’d turned down all the temp jobs for the past month. I had sent off the Smithsonian article that afternoon, and was working on a go-ahead from Forbes ASAP—about the influx of temporary employees into the job market. Amy had suggested it, a
nd Forbes had actually wanted the perspective of a temp instead of the employer. It was shaping up pretty well.

  The evening star appeared in the west. I had been reading in the light from the door, but I let Persuasion slip out of my grasp while I counted stars. I was up to seven when Drake’s headlights blinded me.

  He pulled into his parking space and busied himself around his car for a moment. Then his dark form came toward me. He was carrying something that must have been heavy—I could hear him huffing. Barker raced over, and Drake stumbled at his enthusiastic greeting.

  “Down, you dog!”

  I called Barker to heel, and Drake came on up the walk. He plopped his burden down in front of me. It was a rosebush in a pulp pot, white blossoms luminous in the dark.

  “For you,” Drake said gruffly. “They were having a sale at Roger Reynolds when I drove past.”

  “Thanks.” I had to clear my throat. “It’s beautiful.” I grinned at him. “We can plant it as the beginning of the hedge.” I found the little metal tag at the bud union and tried to read it in the weak light.

  “Margaret Merrill.” Drake sounded proud of himself. “I asked its name. And put it wherever you want it. The hedge should wait until fall, according to the woman at the nursery.”

  I stood up and circled the bush, enjoying its graceful shape. “This is very nice of you, Drake. What’s the occasion?”

  He shrugged. “No occasion. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Liz.”

  “Sorry. I really do appreciate it.” Awkwardly, because I wasn’t used to making such gestures, I wrapped my arms around him.

  I had wanted to do that for some time. Drake’s teddybear quality was finally getting to me. But even though Californians hug at the drop of a beret, I don’t know how to achieve that light, affectionate touch.

  Drake stood still, and I thought miserably that I’d ruined a perfectly good friendship. But when I dropped my arms, his came around me, hard. “You’re welcome,” he whispered in my ear. Then he kissed me, which I guess was what I’d wanted when I’d initiated the embrace. This time the kiss lasted long enough for me to know that I was enjoying it.

  He quit just before I would have had to push him away from sensory overload. “You’re very welcome,” he repeated, and his voice wasn’t quite steady. “I’ll help you plant it tomorrow, if you want.”

  Then he left, crunching over the gravel to his back door. I sat on the steps again, face-to-face with one of Margaret Merrill’s white blooms. It was open, revealing its fringed red heart to the whole world.

  “Wow. Nice flowers.” Amy came through the door, dressed in white for a change—a flowing white overshirt we’d found at the thrift store and skintight white leggings. “Can I have one?”

  She tucked the bud I cut for her into her cleavage and floated toward the street, where Randy’s car had just pulled up. “I’ll be back by eleven,” she called over her shoulder.

  I sat there for a while longer. The sky had blossomed into stars, and the night fragrance seemed to be theirs, pulsing down with almost unbearable sweetness. I took a big breath of it and carried my book inside.

  Copyright © 1995 by Lora Roberts Smith

  Originally published by Ballantine Books as a Fawcett Gold Medal Book

  Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this ebook may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.